Tacit
The dawn bows slowly over stars, and they
Retreat. A woman wakes. Her man has gone.
So ends a love and starts another day.
So ends a love where constellations shone.
The morning star is colorlesss. Its blaze
As clear as pain, is focused like the throat
In song, its entropy beyond cold rays
As if the sky had found the final note.
The airs of early twilight have no hue.
They borrow radiance from the blasé death
Of hours before the sun and suffer slight
Remorse, if any. They remind of you.
You left, will not return like dawn. Your breath
Is memory from one surrendered night.